


still here

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Depression, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21925387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s December 23rd, 2039.One year ago today, Gavin Reed almost ended his life.
Relationships: Connor/Gavin Reed
Comments: 12
Kudos: 98





	still here

It’s December 23rd, 2039.

One year ago today, Gavin Reed almost ended his life.

He remembers the overwhelming despair he felt that night, foremost amongst a whole cacophony of wrestling, screaming emotions. He couldn’t take it anymore. He’s been suicidal a lot of times in his life, but that night he was ready to take action. He texted Tina a suicide note.

And the dumbass texted back. Because of course she was awake at eleven p.m. He should have known better.

Maybe he did know better. Maybe he didn’t really want to die. But either way, she talked him down, and it was like a drug wearing off – all of his emotions drained away like water, leaving him with pure exhaustion. He went to sleep, and when he woke up the next morning he was just empty. Empty, like most mornings.

Empty, like this morning, a year later.

Not dead then and not dead now.

He’s still here, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that. He should be happy or something, right? Relieved. Excited. What-the-fuck-ever normal people feel about being alive.

But he’s none of that. He’s not glad that he’s still here. He’s not proud of himself for staying. He doesn’t anticipate things getting any better. It’s been a shitty year and it’s been a shitty life and it only keeps getting worse, it keeps hurting and he thinks about biting the bullet every single fucking day.

He’s thinking about it now. He’s a police detective and he has a gun on him at all times; he could do it this very minute.

He goes to work instead.

Gavin goes to work, and every time he opens his mouth to talk to a coworker, the words are resting heavy on his tongue. _I might not have been here today._ He wants to tell someone about what happened, for some reason. That would be a horrible idea, of course, and all it would get him is a psychological evaluation. But he still wants to tell someone.

He doesn’t tell anyone. He’s not an idiot.

But Tina’s there, slugging down coffee in the breakroom, and he doesn’t have to tell her anyway because she knows what today is, and even if she didn’t know, she’d know something was off with him. She’s always been able to read him like his whole being is an open book.

She doesn’t use it to tell his future. The future is too far away for him to hold onto.

She just looks up when he walks in and she says, “Hey, Gavin,” all of two words, but underneath it he hears _I remember_ and _I’m here for you_ and this—

This is something for him to hold onto.

“Hey, Tina,” he says, and he tries to smile, even though it feels like his mouth has forgotten how and he’s sure it looks all wrong. He keeps smiling anyway and he says, “Nice day, huh?”

She smiles a little, too, and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

That’s it. That’s all they say to each other that day. They don’t need to say anything else, they don’t need to hug or do anything touchy-feely, because when you get to know somebody the way you do a best friend – when you really see deep down in their soul where all the broken pieces are – eloquent words and gestures aren’t needed to explain things like this.

 _Nice day,_ Gavin says, and Tina knows he’s not talking about the weather.

No, Gavin’s not glad that he’s still here.

But he is glad that he’s not here alone.

Elijah drops by the station around lunchtime. He doesn’t announce his arrival; Gavin looks up from a file and he’s just _there._

It’s –

It’s good to see his brother, but it kind of hurts too. It always hurts, when they see each other, because Gavin remembers back when talking to each other was more than an obligation. He’s not sure what happened, to make them like this, but he’s pretty sure they’re never going back. He doesn’t think either of them has the energy for it; Elijah looks as tired as Gavin feels.

Elijah always looks tired, that’s nothing new, but he doesn’t sound it when he asks, “Would you like to come over for Christmas?”

It’s his public-speaking voice. It’s the one he uses with annoying journalists.

Gavin says, “Yeah, sure. What time?”

(He doesn’t say, “A year ago today I almost died.”

He doesn’t ask, “Would you have cared?”)

“Four p.m.,” Elijah says. “If you want alcohol, you’ll have to bring your own. I don’t drink anymore.”

There’s a story behind that.

They both have stories. Elijah doesn’t ask. So Gavin doesn’t either.

A year ago today Gavin almost ended his life.

Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days ago. He could have made a different decision. He could be dead right now.

A year ago.

He wanted to end it.

Why didn’t he?

Why did he text Tina?

Gavin thinks that maybe it’s not good that he’s thinking about it so much. It’s not good that he’s dwelling on that day a year ago. He keeps remembering how he was going to do it – a gun, probably, that was simplest, but he could have slit his wrists, too, he could have downed a bottle of bleach or rubbing alcohol or something. He could have bought an overdose of red ice on any street corner. He lives in a forty-story apartment building with a rooftop garden; he could have jumped.

He still could. He could do any of that, today.

He needs to stop dwelling.

“Hello, Detective Reed,” Connor says as he passes Gavin’s desk, and Gavin flashes him a smirk and says, “Hey, Terminator,” and that’s that for their interactions.

They’ve been working together for over a year. They’re civil. They still don’t like each other.

Gavin thinks he could like Connor, though. He thinks he could very easily like Connor a whole lot – it would be easy to focus on the way Connor’s voice makes him shiver sometimes, it would be easy to see that smile and feel his heart skip a beat, it would be so damned easy for Gavin to fall head over heels in love with someone he used to hate.

It might even be nice to be in love; Gavin thinks he might feel less empty. He thinks Connor could be someone worth living for, but he also thinks that that’s probably unhealthy and he shouldn’t rely on someone else for the stability of his mental health.

(It makes him think of a quote he heard once –

that you cannot build a home for your heart in another person

because people are rivers, ever changing and flowing

and that which you give to them will disappear in waters deep enough to drown you.)

So it’s better for them to stay like this. They’re okay as they are, not just coworkers but not quite friends, and maybe one day Gavin will be in a good enough place to be good to Connor the way he deserves.

So, “Hey, Terminator,” and they go on about their day like neither has noticed the electricity between them.

Gavin drops by his mom’s place after work, because Christmas is about family or whatever, and regrets it the moment he opens the door to a full-blown screaming match. It’s a solid ten minutes before his mom pauses in verbally assaulting her husband to ask Gavin, in a tone all too calm compared to what Gavin’s been witnessing, “Sweetheart, are you coming over for Christmas dinner?”

“I’m spending it with Elijah and Chloe,” Gavin informs her, with audible relief in his voice.

“Oh, don’t get me started on Elijah. You know he hasn’t spent a holiday here in years?” she exclaims in a scandalized tone.

“I can’t imagine why,” Gavin says, and she doesn’t hear the sarcasm. She goes off into a rant about some complete bullshit, like she always does.

Gavin sighs, takes a seat, and endures it. He wouldn’t expect different from her. It’s not like Christmases as a child were any better than they are now, and it’s hard to miss something you’ve never had.

Gavin passes over a bridge on the way home. He thinks about stopping his car and jumping. He thinks he might really, really want to.

He doesn’t, because traffic’s moving fast and he’s long past the bridge before he’s made a decision.

He gets home. He opens the door to his apartment, and it’s dark and he’s tempted not to bother turning any lights on at all and just flop onto the couch and not move for a long time, but he should probably at least try to behave like a functional human being. So he turns on the lights. He even eats dinner. Sort of. Half a tub of rocky road totally counts, okay.

Then he curls up in bed with his blankets in a mess and his down comforter wrapped around his shoulders, and he puts on a sappy-as-fuck romance movie that has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. He smiles a few times through it, and cries a little too. It’s kind of nice.

Better than last year, anyway.

At some point Gavin checks the time, and he finds that it’s one a.m. on December 24th. On Christmas Eve.

He yawns and stretches and wriggles out from under his comforter. He grimaces at the cold floor against his bare feet as he walks to the kitchen, and it takes a little work to find an unexpired beer in the absolute chaos that is his refrigerator, but he manages.

He pops the cap off and toasts himself.

“Still fuckin’ here,” he mutters.

He made it through the day. He made it through the whole damn year. He’s not glad, and he’s not proud of himself, but he did it.

For whatever it’s worth, he’s still here.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote Gavin references is "People Aren't Homes" by Nikita Gill.


End file.
